


The Coroner's Gambit

by JennaCupcakes



Series: The Great Game [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: A Lot Of Them Actually, Bank Robber AU, Bank Robbery, Enjolras Has Feelings, M/M, everybody is sad and then they get their shit together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2014-05-21
Packaged: 2018-01-25 22:45:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1665269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennaCupcakes/pseuds/JennaCupcakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras isn't very good at decision-making. He is, however, good at robbing banks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Coroner's Gambit

**Author's Note:**

> YES I finally finished the third and last part of the Bank Robber AU that started as the Casino Porn. 
> 
> Title taken from 'The Coroner's Gambit' by the Mountain Goats. 'Will you ever stop using Mountain Goats songs for your fic titles?' you ask. The answer is 'probably not but an argument can be made for Frank Turner.'
> 
> Beta-read, as always, by the wonderful speightdaysaweek, who probably can teach me a thing or two about writing and being awesome. 
> 
> I might be overusing the sea-metaphors. Shoot me.

“Are you in position?”

Combeferre’s voice sounds metallic through the earpiece hidden under golden curls, Enjolras has trouble making him out against the backdrop of noise in the casino, and his forehead creases in concentration.

“We’re good to go.”

Courfeyrac next to him is moving with graceful determination, and the words roll off his tongue easily. Enjolras is always fascinated by how well Courfeyrac reads crowds, and how he plays people, watching Courfeyrac move through the masses is _art_ , Enjolras only has to follow.

Courfeyrac’s dressed in a suit, not a hair out of order, but Enjolras feels like he’s been stuffed into five kilos of armour, he can’t move and when he does it’s clumsy and _wrong_ and it feels like he’s twenty all over again.

He can’t do this, not tonight.

He can't do this, but he knows he's the key. Enjolras- the end of a long line of preparation and planning. Everybody is counting on him.

 “Enjolras, you’re looking kind of pale, are you okay?” Joly’s jarred voice enquires over the earpiece, jerking Enjolras out of his state of mindless drifting back into a world where people are moving around him as if he’s just another one in a million and he’s still following Courfeyrac down a long line that can end in a cell or another couple of zeros added to their bank account. The sharp contrast and the uncertainty of it have never quite bothered Enjolras.

It was only ever the waiting.

“Joly, stay off the line,” Combeferre says, but there’s no reprimand behind it, even though every idly spoken word can give Enjolras and Courfeyrac away. Even he can see that Enjolras isn’t alright.

“Enjolras, I know that I would give my right hand for this mission, but if you can’t do this, we’ll cancel it this very instant.”

“You’re left-handed,” Enjolras points out under his breath and Courfeyrac turns because _they’re not supposed to talk back_.

“Just trying to lighten the mood,” Combeferre says, “Okay, I’m sending the request now. The moment the two of you walk through those doors, you have to start talking. Don’t stop. Give them no time to question what you’re saying.”

Enjolras grits his teeth, because goddamnit he knows the plan, Combeferre doesn’t have to repeat it every five minutes, but he breathes and reminds himself how much this means to Combeferre, and then he looks around and takes in the people and pictures the grim satisfaction of taking from every single one of these assholes, and he’s alright again.

There’s purpose in his step when he moves next.

Courfeyrac lets him take the lead when they come near the doors, and Enjolras approaches the man at the desk like he was born to do it.

“Christine,” he says, “I’m here on behalf of my parent’s security company. You should have received an e-mail from them.”

The man doesn’t even question him, only spares him so much as a passing glance before he frowns down at his computer screen.

“Ah, yes,” he drawls, and Enjolras can see him chewing gum. He always feels the effort that went into a farce is underappreciated when he’s face to face with the actual people they are tricking. It boils down to something quite, well, mundane.

“The mail’s here. What do you want?”

That’s where Courfeyrac comes in, because, God bless, that man can talk almost as good as he picks pockets, and once he’s started, there’s no force on earth stopping him. He moves forward, briefly sizing up the man while holding a fake badge at him that serves no purpose besides giving his appearance and additional touch of authority. Thank God for people who actually believe in what they see on TV.

“Well, it’s all been fine and dandy this weekend, I was well on my way down to San Fran for a brief holiday when the Misses here calls me up and says there’s been a glitch in our latest system update and that people are reporting faulty alarms back to us and I said Christine, there’s no way on earth that my programming could go wrong, it’s gotta be the hardware, and she said you have to come up here and check everyone who received the latest upgrade, Dad says it’s in the programming. Well, who am I to refuse a beautiful lady so I packed my bags and hauled my sorry ass back home, and if you could point me to your computers that would be grand, and we can all go home before the happy hour.”

The man nods dazedly, says “I’ll bring you to the main computer and tell my boss you’re here,” gets up and leads them through the door next to the counter. Courfeyrac starts talking again.

“Christine, I’m telling you, it’s gotta be the hardware, I mean didn’t you equip everyone with the 5.3 upgrade with those circuits from Badger, I bet that guy messed up big time. Goddamnit, now I have to check three more companies on the weekend alone when it’s not even my fault, I’m telling you, you should pay me double for this, I’m not doing this for free...”

They turn a corner, Courfeyrac still talking, and the man stops in front of a door. “Here we are,” he says, and then looks at Courfeyrac. Enjolras doesn’t like that look. There’s too much doubt in that look.

Courfeyrac stands confidently, a bag with equipment flung over his shoulder – technician, Bahorel’s idea had been genius, that way nobody would question the clanking inside the bag and they could bring in their equipment right in front of everybody’s eyes – and he stares back at the man.

“Actually...” the man says hesitantly, “I don’t know about any false alarms.”

Enjolras stops breathing. Courfeyrac huffs, and brushes past the man without a second glance. “That’s because you didn’t report them, honey. It’s a hardware problem and this is a preventative visit. Just let me do my job and I’ll be out of here in five.”

He slams the door shut, and Enjolras smiles apologetically. “We wanted to fix this problem as fast as possible. It’s in our customer’s best interest.”

His throat already feels raw from mimicking a sister’s voice for only two sentences, but it’s not so much the strain of a higher voice than the effort of keeping the panic beneath out. The man nods at him, clearly more comfortable with Enjolras than he was with Courfeyrac.

“Well, I should... I should get my boss.”

“Good idea,” Enjolras says, because they’re not going to be here when he returns, anyway, Bossuet and Bahorel will make sure of that. Enjolras just has to guarantee that nobody will disturb Courfeyrac in the five minutes he needs.

He leans back against the wall opposite of the door Courfeyrac disappeared through, pushes his hair out of his face and glances at his wristwatch, and then feels a hand around his wrist and is pulled from the bright light of the corridor into an adjacent, considerably darker room.

He can smell Grantaire’s aftershave.

The door closes with a soft click.

Enjolras, who follows suit, is unceremoniously pressed against the door that resonates with a dull thud, and fuck, he can’t breathe because Grantaire’s there right in front of him and he can’t see him but he can _smell_ him, fuck, he can feel him, Grantaire has his hand in Enjolras hair and _pulls_ and holds him pressed against the door with the other. Enjolras had thought that whatever he shared with Grantaire before had been tearing him in two – now he can hear sinews screaming and has no hands to cover his ears, he has to hold on to Grantaire before g-force kicks him out of the trail and he ends up splattered across the wall with burst organs and a bashed-in head.

“What are you _doing_ here?”

Enjolras has the presence of mind to switch off his earpiece, hopes to make it an inconspicuous movement while he fixes Grantaire with a stare, but he doesn’t like how close to desperation he sounds, his voice is a whimper against the desert wind of Grantaire’s warm body.

“I’m working,” Grantaire says smugly, “What about you?”

Enjolras remembers that Grantaire probably means his job – _his fake-job_ – at the casino, not the fact that he’s working for the FBI, he doesn’t know that Enjolras knows and Enjolras himself wishes he could remember anything at all.

“Business,” he forces out between clenched teeth, clenched because otherwise he might spill out things he doesn’t even want to admit to himself.

_I am here because I hoped to see you._

_I am here because I hoped you’d stop me_.

Grantaire laughs quietly – he has this laugh, and it always makes Enjolras think he already knows everything he could possibly say – and leans forward to press a quick kiss to Enjolras’ mouth. Enjolras feels his lips burn like Grantaire’s lips were acid.

“And what is your _business_ here? There’s a sign, you know? _Employees only_.”

Enjolras can’t, he _can’t play along_ , no, fuck – _Combeferre is right, why did Enjolras ever try to convince himself he isn’t_ – he doesn’t _want_ to play along. Oh yes, of course, he believes that the world would be a better place if two percent of the people didn’t hoard their oh-so-beloved money in banks, spending it mindlessly on commodities when they saw it fit while they held out a hand just out of reach and _believed_ themselves when saying _you can make it, too_ , but he doesn’t want to believe that he can only have that without Grantaire.

He leans forward as well and kisses Grantaire, and it takes about two milliseconds before Grantaire has him pressed up against the door, so close that he almost cannot breathe while he can feel Grantaire breathing, Grantaire doesn’t leave him any air, Enjolras feels and tastes and smells Grantaire and he closes his eyes and God help him.

This isn’t going very well.

He breaks the kiss, finds the strength to pull back solely because of a softly ticking clock on a wall in the room and the thought of Courfeyrac is still present at the back of his mind and he knows, he knows he has to go now or their plan will go to hell and Combeferre will see to it that he will go to hell, too, he has to go now. He has to go without making Grantaire suspicious and directing him elsewhere and he has to do it without losing him, if Grantaire finds out this is over, he will probably never see him again and what if Grantaire is just playing him, what if, God, he can’t think about that now.

He takes a deep breath.

“Well, then where would you rather have me?”

His voice doesn’t sound quite right, he knows, it’s too raw and the strain is too obvious, but he makes do while looking Grantaire in the eyes, watching the twitching of muscles on his face, he’s never watched anyone so intently. Something lights up in Grantaire’s eyes, something playful and delighted and regret seizes Enjolras like vital arteries clogging in his heart. It’s not an _I love you_ , but it’s honest joy at the lie Enjolras fed him, and it hurts.

“I thought you were doing business?”

“It can wait,” Enjolras replies, and he takes the hand Grantaire offers and lets himself be led towards a door at the end of the room. Grantaire turns back to him, and there’s this stupid smile on his face and Enjolras still wants to cry and it’s foreign to him because he never cries, he only screams, but he wants to laugh with Grantaire at the same time because that stupid fucking smile actually makes him happy in a way that tears his chest in two.

“Why are you wearing a dress?” Grantaire asks with a frown.

Enjolras looks down on himself and just shrugs.

—Ψ—

“He didn’t.”

Combeferre isn’t desperate. Not quite. He knows Enjolras, has known him for five long years, and the Enjolras he knows would never risk the lives of his friends or the success of the plan.

Combeferre asks himself if he has made a mistake.

“Okay, I need details.”

He started this the wrong way, the completely wrong way, he shouldn’t have been relying on Enjolras’ good sense when he learnt about Grantaire, he should have said it immediately instead of watching the train wreck in slow motion.

“Did he just go, did he surrender, did he approach them, did they approach him, how many were there...”

“ _I don’t know_.”

Courfeyrac’s voice is quiet, pressed, and Combeferre can hear him sprinting down a hallway, of course, Courfeyrac is on his way to the safe, where Enjolras is supposed to be right now. Where he most certainly isn’t right now.

“His microphone is switched off.”

Combeferre needs to solve this mess in less than three minutes.

“Okay, Combeferre, please tell me you have a backup, give me Feuilly, for fuck’s sake, I don’t care, but I need _someone_ here or this entire thing will go to hell.”

Combeferre closes his eyes and counts to three. He doesn’t even have the time to count to ten.

“I’ll get someone there, just wait, but Feuilly wouldn’t help. You know that he builds this things, he doesn’t dismantle them. Maybe Jehan...”

“ _I don’t care_.”

Courfeyrac has stopped, and it’s then that Combeferre’s other phone lights up – he has multiple lines open on nights like this, just because it might all go to hell like right now, and he likes to be prepared – and a message from Enjolras illuminates the screen.

“He’s still out there,” Combeferre says to Courfeyrac.

“Well, tell him thanks for nothing,” Courfeyrac curses, but Combeferre doesn’t really hear him, is too caught up in trying to get behind Enjolras’ message.

_Call me_ , it says, and nothing else, and God knows that could mean anything and nothing, though the fact that Enjolras isn’t more specific probably doesn’t mean anything good.

Combeferre just does him the favour and calls him.

—Ψ—

He’s been waiting too long, and the phone is itching in his bag – a handbag, yes – and he’s following Grantaire more and more reluctantly, though he still wants to reach out and touch and that desire is being classified as a worse and worse idea in his head by the minute. Soon he won’t even be able to look at Grantaire without feeling this particular sense of shame that comes with betraying both friends and whatever the fuck Grantaire is to him, but he can’t spend any time on trying to figure that out now, God knows he really should be doing other things.

Like robbing this fucking casino.

Really, where the fuck is Combeferre when he needs him.

At least they’re among people again, the casino bursting with activity around them, and Enjolras can probably trust Grantaire not to make a scene in front of all these potential heaps of money gracefully flowing into vaults deeper into the casino and potential witnesses, and it also gives him a convenient excuse not to touch Grantaire. Touching him burns in the worst kind of way. It starts out pleasantly warm, and then leaves his skin blistering and scorching red and ready to peel off. . Enjolras wants to claw his way out of his body, just to get a bit of fresh air, it’s too hot in the dress and Grantaire in front of him is moving easily, without grace but full of natural confidence and his body sighs with the memory of him, it feels like an open fracture.

He’s not sure how he will get to the end of this night.

The slight vibrating in his bag sets him off like an electric shock, his hand curls around the small phone and he has to remind himself to slip it out casually, so as to not give himself away.

“Hello?”

“ _Enjolras, what the fuck, Courf told me you went away with them, what the hell were you thinking, we need you, you promised me, Enjolras_...”

“Frankfurt? I don’t know what the hell is going down in Frankfurt, and frankly, I don’t really care because--”

He can hear Combeferre’s stunned silence, and then Grantaire turns around and Enjolras steels himself, thinks _hermetic locks_ and _titanium_.

“I see.” He pauses again and hopes that Combeferre at some point will just start to run with it, because he could really use some input for this very one-sided charade. “Well, it’s not my fault they fucked up. How much do you think we’ll lose if we don’t call them right now?”

Combeferre clears his throat. “ _I have no idea what you’re saying, but I am assuming that’s your way of telling me that someone is listening_.”

“True.”

Enjolras makes it sound like a nonchalant agreement, and gives Grantaire an apologetic shrug.

“ _In that case, Courfeyrac is currently losing his mind at the safe, so you better hurry up and get your ass down there, or you’ll have to explain this fucking grand plan of yours to me in a jail cell tomorrow_.”

He really wishes he could apologise right now, but he won’t risk that. Instead, he motions for Grantaire to wait for a second.

“And Miller is still in the back with the people from the other bank?” He waits for a brief moment. “I’ll talk to him.”

Combeferre lets out a sigh of relief. “ _I am so glad that you haven’t lost it completely_.”

Enjolras grits his teeth at that, and now he’s thankful for Grantaire because if he weren’t here, he would probably have to lie to Combeferre. “Give me ten minutes,” he says and hangs up.

Grantaire is frowning. “What was that?”

Enjolras runs a hand through his hair – intricately styled, beautiful hair – and sighs. He slips on the lie like an old tie, and it’s ill-fitting and strangling and uncomfortable, but he wears it nevertheless, because it is expected of him. “We put a lot of money in an exclusive deal, and apparently the people who sold us that deal have been selling to at least three other parties. Someone just called my partner from Frankfurt to let us know, because...”

He smiles apologetically. The tie is a noose, he knows. “It doesn’t really matter, does it? We’re in a bad situation, and about to lose our reputation and more money than we can afford to lose, and I can probably settle this by having a brief chat with a _very_ influential guy who is currently sealing a deal in one of the backrooms. It’ll help me sleep tonight, if nothing else.”

“You’re going to do business talks like this?” Grantaire frowns and points to the dress and Enjolras only just remembers and wow, how is he going to explain that. Grantaire seems entertained. “Well, I wouldn’t be able to say no to you.”

He smiles, but there’s something else in his gaze, something distant and not quite calculating, but definitely on the wrong side of thoughtful. Enjolras will have to be wary of that.

“I didn’t plan on doing this tonight.”

“What _were_ you planning on doing with that dress?”

And now Grantaire is suspicious, and Enjolras can’t afford that, he really can’t, and he hates himself so much.

“I don’t know,” he croons, drops his voice to a low whisper and takes a step forward in a way he knows will make the silk catch the light at the right angle. He’s in full getup, and he might feel ridiculous, but there’s no denying the effect the dress is having on Grantaire, wide-eyed and staring, and Enjolras hates himself a little more as he leans into Grantaire, hovers without quite touching. “Maybe I was planning on seducing an innocent casino employee. Who knows?”

Grantaire meets him halfway for the kiss, and Enjolras can’t stand being touched so gently, it feels like Grantaire is turning him into something more by assuming nothing but love from him, and he can’t afford that. He can’t afford so many things at the moment, bound by duty and friendship and trust and fuck, there are no winners here, are there? Enjolras certainly isn’t going to win anything.

“Can I meet you outside later?” he asks quietly, hovering in the vicinity of Grantaire because he can’t make himself pull away just yet, hoping to make one last promise he can’t keep for the sake of pretending. If he needs to be selfish before he can be strong, then so be it, it’s the last time he will be selfish for a long time.

Grantaire hovers, too, keeps running a thumb over the back of Enjolras’ hand like he’s practising the movement of letting go. His face is a smile and sadness in his eyes that Enjolras only just noticed, and he starts to panic but then Grantaire grips his hand tightly, reassuringly and whispers ‘Of course,’ and then he’s gone.

Enjolras makes for the safe.

—Ψ—

Of course they have a van in front of the main doors, suspiciously unsuspicious, black and equipped with all the latest gadgets – or at least those latest gadgets that budget cuts and a second-class operation can buy.

At least they have access to the cameras.

Grantaire runs a hand through his hair and hopes that he doesn’t look like he just snogged their incredibly attractive suspect – a hope that is most likely in vain, Enjolras feels like flaming stigma on his forehead, except there’s less religious symbolism and more of those not quite sound choices he tends to make when the clocks tick past midnight and he hasn’t had enough or too much to drink. Enjolras feels to him, to put it more plainly, like an incredibly stupid idea.

He has to duck as he climbs into the van.

Inside it smells like old coffee, burnt plastic and cold fries. Grantaire wonders if this combination is unavoidable when you leave an underpaid cop alone with too many computer screens for too long, and the answer is probably _yes_ , just as the answer to the question if Grantaire is endangering this operation is _yes_.

“Show me Enjolras.”

The cop doesn’t seem to be a friend of many words, he might just be a man of Grantaire’s liking, or one Grantaire could have ended up being if he had just had the common sense not to excel at subjects when he had still been so eager to get ahead, and then end up stuck at the end of the chain of command, called whenever one of the suits above him needed someone to mop up or deal with an insignificant problem. People always assume he’s never had any ambitions, but that’s not true – it’s just that his ambitions never seemed to get him anywhere good.

In any case, the cop pushes a few buttons and then Enjolras is marching across the screen in the goddamn dress. The picture is bad, but the light reflections on the shiny fabric show up clearly enough, even though Grantaire cannot read Enjolras’ expression.

He’s about ninety percent sure that Enjolras is planning something – ninety percent grown from reasonable scepticism, a gut feeling, and the fact that all of Enjolras’ answers came way too fluently. Actually Grantaire doesn’t want to think about why Enjolras isn’t sitting in their van already, plastic zipper cuffs around his wrists and with that trademark glare of his on his face. It’s one answer too many that Grantaire can’t give.

“Sir.” The cop pauses, struggling with the half spoken question he’s half a mind not to ask at all, an intake of breath that is more a struggle for courage, and all that even though Grantaire isn’t even that far up in the food chain, just that idiot that ends up doing the job when nobody else wants to get their hands dirty. “Do we have conclusive evidence against him?”

Grantaire is staring at the dress again. He finds it hard not to. He thinks of Frankfurt, tries not to think of two nights just barely off the job. He hasn’t put his weapon back on, he was supposed to be inconspicuous after all, and the line between duty and time off blurs.

“No,” Grantaire answers, and turns away.

Enjolras disappears off the screens.

—Ψ—

“Enjolras, where the _fuck_ were you...”

“Don’t you dare, don’t you _dare_ do this agai--”

“... _fucking late_ , we could have gone to hell...”

Combeferre is shouting through his earpiece the minute Enjolras switches it back on, and there is Courfeyrac in front of the safe and both of them try to outbid the other in their unheard shouting match where Enjolras needs silence, and he holds up a hand to Courfeyrac and shushes Combeferre.

“I’m _sorry_ , and I’m here, so we best get on with it.”

His glare silences Courfeyrac, and Combeferre is reassured by the calm professionalism that makes Enjolras such an excellent bank robber, he doesn’t lose his calm, doesn’t get tangled up in messes of money and sex and drugs and alcohol, he just delivers, and it’s been the fear of losing that professionalism by his side that put Combeferre on edge. Enjolras knows that.

He moves in front of the doors of the safe. Down here the air is cooler, and they’re far enough from any people to hear the air conditioning drown out the static in their earpieces. Combeferre’s voice sounds even further off than back up in the main hall, they’re too far underground to get a good connection.

“I don’t know much longer you’ve got,” says Combeferre apologetically. Enjolras blinds that out as he focuses on the door, takes in model and type and age and security systems and breathes easier knowing that Jehan is controlling a steady feed of fake security camera recordings. He doesn’t have to think here, his hands move on their own and that’s the fucking best thing that could happen to him because his mind is still way off course and orbiting around Grantaire.

Courfeyrac, bags in hand and expensive sunglasses pushed back into his dark curls, is staring at him.

Suddenly, he switches off his earpiece, motions for Enjolras to do the same. Enjolras hesitates, he has a safe to open, but Courfeyrac seems adamant and he _is_ a professional, after all, he knows what he’s doing just like Enjolras does.

He switches off his earpiece.

“Real talk,” Courfeyrac says, and Enjolras recognises the tone in his voice, has heard Courfeyrac speaking to junkies and teenage runaways in the same voice. It’s a voice that compels people to listen. “How fucked are you?”

Enjolras goes bright red, wants to bury his head in his hands, but instead resumes working at the safe’s lock with iron determination, like this door personally wronged him.

“If you’re wondering whether you’re safe or not,” Enjolras replies, “don’t, you’re safe.”

Courfeyrac nods solemnly, but Enjolras knows he is not satisfied – Courfeyrac does not give up easily, he could wear down mountains with his shrewish determination.

“I’m not worried about my safety,” he says, “I’m worried about yours.”

And suddenly Enjolras can see it in Courfeyrac’s eyes for a split-second, because yeah, Courfeyrac is not worried about his future – he trusts Enjolras to get the job done, because he’d never mess that up, but it’s what comes afterwards that scares him, that scares Combeferre. They’re afraid Enjolras will leave them for the hope of finding a love he cannot have, or that he’ll run into the sea chasing a sunset that’s just a burning ship on the horizon. And it’s actually very likely that he’ll end up like this.

“I’ll be fine,” he insists between clenched teeth, almost gets his fingers stuck in the machinery of his tools and the lock.

Courfeyrac raises an eyebrow, switches on his earpiece and says nothing.

—Ψ—

He’s standing in an empty safe not five minutes after, but the usual high of achievement and adrenalin is lacking.

It’s eerily quiet in the safe now, Courfeyrac has gone up with Bahorel and Feuilly is waiting for them at their getaway van. It’s just Enjolras down here now, and he should have been gone with Courfeyrac. Only he can’t.

He’s standing there, taking a last look around, thinking _this is it_ –

Just when Grantaire shows up.

 

“Enjolras,” he says, like a devout man at prayer.

It’s that moment that makes Enjolras realise that they’re both losing this game.

“I can explain everything,”

 – is what Enjolras doesn’t say.

“I’m sorry,” is what he says instead, because language wasn’t developed for this situation. Language can’t encompass his agony, express his regret or bring him back to a time before their first night in the casino.

“Yeah, me too.”

Grantaire’s words are a bitter medicine, they seem to sting as they crawl their way out of his throat, or the pain on his face wouldn’t be this evident.

“What are you gonna do?”

Enjolras can move again, and he moves towards Grantaire where he wants to recoil because Grantaire is still warm and comforting, Enjolras knows, he just has to put his hand _there_ and press his body _there_ and he will feel safe again for a second before the lie comes to haunt him. It’s in his every breath now, and he’s breathing fire on the happy pretending he’s built up since Combeferre uttered the words that destroyed him.

_What are you gonna do._

Only the answer to that question can harm him now.

It’s never taken Grantaire so long to answer before, and Enjolras wonders.

“I don’t know,” he sounds honest, in his words but more in the way his whole body moves with the shrug, and in his lost, wandering gaze that does everything to avoid Enjolras. “What do you think I should do? I don’t have a manual for this.”

He seems to have figured that Enjolras knows. Maybe he’s waiting for Enjolras to give himself away, and Enjolras can’t bear that thought, much less than the thought that’s forcing itself on him now.

“How long?” he asks, because keeping it inside is even worse, he’d rather spit venom than die from it. “How long have you known? Was all this just some _game_ to you?”

He motions between them, finds that gestures as well as words are insufficient to express the way he is tearing apart inside even know, how could _anything_ in the world ever explain what he feels for Grantaire. It’s burning hot, but Enjolras thinks _steel vaults_ again, and the fire cools down even as he moves forward – if Grantaire has the audacity to be professional in all this, then he can, too.

“I never meant to...” Grantaire begins one explanation, then sets it aside in favour of another one. “I swear, Enjolras, it didn’t start like this, when I found out it was _you_ I wanted to stay away, but you just have to be...”

He’s fighting the words, even as they come bubbling out of his mouth, and his hands are a wringing mess. “You just have to be so goddamn _irresistible_.”

That’s when he can meet Enjolras’ eyes, and the desperation is honest or else Grantaire is a very good actor – Enjolras can’t keep down the laughter. It’s hones as well, because he cannot believe the two of them, how did they ever end up here?

“Are you listening to yourself?”

“Would lying to you make me gain anything now?”

Grantaire seems crushed, or maybe that’s what Enjolras wants to think.

“I believe you.”

Grantaire pauses.

“Enjolras, don’t,” he says, like Enjolras doesn’t know he’s halfway down a cliff with no rope to catch him, like warnings still matter with the way they’ve gone. Or maybe he’s just afraid where this will get them. God knows he’s gone far enough already. Maybe he can see the precipice, too.

“Grantaire, listen.”

Enjolras is moving again now, because he can’t bring himself to touch anymore but he’s trying to stick around anyway, because there’s a very real chance that _Grantaire_ will just go and that would be the end of them, then.

“Listen, I know how it sounds but please, you could come with us, really, we have enough space and enough money, you could just...”

He trails off mid-sentence. He knows how he sounds. Delusional at best, that’s what he’s become, and then there’s that look in Grantaire’s eyes that just tells him _no_.

This isn’t what Grantaire wanted to hear.

“Enjolras.” He sounds firmer now, and Enjolras stops his pacing because the machine has come to a grinding halt, the wheels aren’t spinning anymore, _rien ne va plus_.

“Really, no.”

And if he’s still torn, well, it’s not really showing, and it was a long shot anyway, Enjolras thinks, but he still leans forward and tilts his head and Grantaire responds. There are leagues between them already, the most they can do is intertwine their hands and shorten the distance between their lips until they’re breathing each other’s air, Grantaire’s lips are chapped like he’s been chewing on them, but he is also warm and comforting.

Enjolras doesn’t know how to pull back.

—Ψ—

Bahorel gives the small screen a short glance, then snorts.

“He’s so fucked,” he says to Feuilly, and takes the cigarette he’s offered.

—Ψ—

He leaves, because it’s the only thing that’s left to do.

Grantaire doesn’t stop him.

It might be a last testimony to the fact that Grantaire really did love him, but Enjolras can’t look back to see what he’s leaving behind. He gave this the wrong start, he never did have anything that even remotely reassembled a relationship, but they could have gotten better had fate not intervened.

He is determined now. He will not run off to chase burning ships anymore.

He leaves, and Grantaire doesn’t stop him, even though he could, and then Enjolras realises that they’ve won, Combeferre got what they needed and the others are already out of here, that’s what he used to dream of and now it feels like he’s forgotten how to dream. He’s delirious with relief, his bones are singing with the weight they don’t have to carry anymore, but he’s not just escaping from the threat of arrest, he’s walking away from the love he’d never thought he’d want, and he has to stop calling this love.

He has to, immediately, before he fools himself into missing something that was never there.

—Ψ—

Courfeyrac suggests Spain, somewhere in the south of the country, with dark mountains rising against an evening sky of pastel colours, with palm trees and a soft sea, not all that different from California. Something forgiving, something easy to stomach, to be precise: everything you can hope to achieve as a retired bank robber.

Enjolras isn’t in a very forgiving mood.

Combeferre is sitting next to him on the train, wrapped up in a scarf and with two suitcases between his legs. Enjolras is squirming on the cheap plastic seats, he can’t find a comfortable sitting position, but Combeferre is unmoving and silent. He doesn’t seem as tired as Enjolras is feeling, either, though there might be some things going on behind his forehead that Enjolras will never get to. It might be for the best, he really doesn’t know if he could stomach any more guilt piled on top of the one he already carries around inside of him.

The train passes fields, endless green monotony, and the hills have grown scarcer. The sky is a solid mass of dark grey that weighs heavily on his soul.

As he leans his head against the window, rain begins to fall.

—Ψ—

“How is he doing?”

Combeferre is locked in the train bathroom, a cramped space full of bad smells and bright lights, and Courfeyrac is half a world away, in San Francisco, where he first picked up Enjolras and Combeferre. It seems like a lifetime ago.

 Combeferre looks at himself in the mirror, watches the wrinkles appear on his forehead.

“As you’d expect.” He doesn’t really know how to put it, he’s known Enjolras for so long that his every thought and worry have become something he rarely ever has to put into words anymore. He just _knows_ , most of the time. “Still not talking a lot. I’m not sure if he’s blaming us or himself.”

He can hear Courfeyrac sigh audibly. “What would you expect?”

“I...”

“That was a rhetoric question.” Courfeyrac laughs sharply. “I mean, how old where you when I picked you up in San Francisco? You’d just barely started college. We’ve been everything for each other in the last years, and then he meets this guy and falls in love and he thinks this is it, he can finally have that bit of normalcy that he never got to have, and it turns out it’s just another downside to this fucked up life.”

Courfeyrac seems riled up over something else, but he’s not saying what. He sounds distracted. Maybe it’s something happening at the homeless shelter, Combeferre guesses.

He does, however, make a good point.

“I guess the most we can do is wait,” he says, “He knows we’re still here. He knows we can’t go back.”

He leans back against the door of the tiny cubicle. “I’ll talk to you soon, Courf.”

—Ψ—

“I don’t think you have what we’re looking for,” is what Enjolras hears most of the time nowadays. He’s tired of applying for jobs.

—Ψ—

The North Sea has its own beauty, he figures, even though it’s dirty, a straight coastline littered with plastic, the water dark and muddy and cold. Even the gulls look angrier here, like they are about to attack innocent pedestrians in hope of a free lunch. Enjolras spends a lot of time at the beach, looking at the tourists and the ships in the distance, trying to figure out where the Atlantic is.

—Ψ—

He spends some more time at the beach, trying to figure out what to do next. Combeferre is talking about the progress the money out of their heist is bringing, talks of renovation and new supplies and hot meals for the homeless, or maybe orphaned kids. Enjolras feels aimless without a target to pursue, but slowly he begins to think he’s seeing that bigger picture Combeferre was talking about.

—Ψ—

There are letters piling up next to the door. Enjolras does his best to ignore them.

—Ψ—

Their house is too big, Enjolras decides one day, too big without the other ones there. They were supposed to be here, anyway, it can’t be long until they show up, but it’s the emptiness that finally drives him out of the house on a rainy day.

He ends up taking shelter at the library, and leaves three hours later with a job.

—Ψ—

“You know, volunteering doesn’t really count as a job, Enjolras.”

Courfeyrac is on skype, his picture grainy and lagging. He’s smiling, and Enjolras wonders if he’s ever had to get over a broken heart like this, if he knows exactly how it feels, and then he thinks Courfeyrac probably has and if he can keep on smiling anyway Enjolras can do that, too.

“It does,” Enjolras replies, “Especially because it’s not like we need the money anyway.”

“Have you heard that, ‘ferre?” Courfeyrac turns his head to where he suspects Combeferre to linger offscreen. “ _We don’t need the money anyway_. Do you think we run a charity, Enjolras? Ah-ah, that’s not how it goes, everybody has to pull their weight and if you don’t contribute to the family income...”

Somebody smacks him with a newspaper from behind. Going by the laughter, it was probably Jehan.

“That _hurt_!” Courfeyrac complains loudly, rubbing his head.

“Maybe Jehan thinks you’re not contributing enough to the family income,” Enjolras suggests. Courfeyrac rewards him with a glare.

“I liked you better when you weren’t trying to be funny.”

Luckily, Combeferre is there to intervene. “Keep it quiet, kids. This is a serious phone conference about serious things.”

“Like what?” Bahorel asks from somewhere the webcam doesn’t catch him. “All I can see is Enjolras has finally brushed his hair.”

Courfeyrac snickers. Combeferre doesn’t comment. Enjolras, after a warning glare from Combeferre, stores the retort he had in mind for later use.

“We’re celebrating the fact that Enjolras successfully persuaded me to use a part of our money to bribe the right person in the right office to get the parliament to drop the Stricter Border Control legislation.”

“Are we getting involved in European politics now?” Courfeyrac asks.

“We are getting involved in everything that deserves our attention,” Enjolras replies, sharply because this is what he should have said from the start, what he never should have lost sight of. He did lose sight of it, somewhere along the line, but he can see it again now. Right the wrongs where he can find them, leave the rest to sort itself out.

“Congratulations,” Courfeyrac says.

Maybe he means it. Maybe he doesn’t understand what this means for Enjolras. Not just yet.

Combeferre is looking up from behind his laptop. Enjolras can see him now, for the first time since university, see him in the way he has changed, and see himself change like a mirrored image. Combeferre’s body has grown a last few inches, but he’s settling into his body now in a way that makes him seem less lanky and more sturdy, like he’s growing in mental weight as well in physical. He’s changed glasses, and they make his gaze seem more focussed as he looks to Enjolras, running a hand through hair that he’s always kept short for practical reasons, and which starts thinning out at the edges now.

“Pizza for dinner?”

Some things never really change, though.

—Ψ—

He opens his letters.

There are thank you notes from various charities, his first new phone bill, a note from the library about a local event, and a blank letter.

The post stamp says it was posted three weeks ago, in Sausalito, California.

—Ψ—

Grantaire arrives like a summer storm at sea.

—Ψ—

The skies are clear, he has a life back, and Grantaire is standing in front of his door one afternoon, nothing but a backpack and a crooked smile with him.

There’s nobody home, nobody to stop Enjolras from doing anything, and all he can think is that he’s going to ruin them all over again.

The clouds sweep in from the sea and swallow the coastline within minutes. Nobody was expecting a thing.

—Ψ—

They’re sitting on opposite sides of the bed.

Grantaire took off his shoes. He’s not wearing socks, and for a heartbeat it’s distracting Enjolras enough to actually tear his eyes from the closed mask that is Grantaire’s face. Then he realises his mistake and quickly looks back up.

There’s half a smile on Grantaire’s face.

“So you came,” Enjolras says eventually, because the silence is unbearable and the big room is swallowing them up. His words feel flimsy, like the breeze that rushes in through the open window might carry them away.

“I did.”

For a second there’s something dark on Grantaire’s face, a furrowed brow, like he remembers the unpleasantness that is tied to coming here. He tugs his legs in under his body.

Enjolras realises that Grantaire might be nervous. It’s the first time that occurs to him.

His hand halts between them, half lost in the motion of not-touching.

“Why?”

He’s asking the question no-one should ever ask, but he can’t _not_ ask.

Grantaire laughs. “Really, Enjolras?”

Enjolras had forgotten how Grantaire moves his shoulders while laughing, how his whole body bends forward, how he breaks eye contact and shakes his head and how the lines around his eyes crinkle. It’s something quite enticing.

“Are you _really_ asking?”

He’s looking up at Enjolras again, one eyebrow raised and an echo of a smile still in the corner of his mouth. Enjolras feels anger bubble up inside him at that – he had _asked_ Grantaire after all, asked him to come with him and Grantaire had shook his head and yet here he was like it was the only logical conclusion and maybe it was for him but if it was then Enjolras couldn’t follow him there.

“Listen, Grantaire.”

He leans forward, and his hand drops because he’s suddenly lost all intention of touching. “Listen, if this is one more game for you then _fine_ , but it’s my friends’ life at stake this time, not just mine, so if you could _explain yourself_ \--”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence. Grantaire leans forward and kisses him, and the world stops for a split second. The waves stop wearing down the shoreline.

Enjolras is lost.

It’s like their first kiss all over again, he’s starving for Grantaire to touch him but this time Grantaire _isn’t_ and Enjolras is still on fire. Their lips are dragging against each other, slowly and deliberately, like Grantaire has thought this through enough times to be thorough about his task, and isn't _that_ an exciting thought, the idea of Grantaire not getting him out of his head.

He wants to cup the back of Grantaire's head and keep him locked up in a kiss that is spreading warmth in the pit of his stomach, but he knows very well that he won't be able to let go once he grants himself that luxury.

He lets the kiss run its course, follows Grantaire only for a brief second when he pulls back because he can't help but lean into the warmth.

“I thought this through,” Grantaire says when he leans back, like he heard Enjolras' thoughts, and the echo of his lips is too soft for Enjolras to question it.

“I mean it this time.” He thinks for a moment. “I meant it the last time, but I didn’t want to bear the consequences back then.”

That seems to be true for himself as well, Enjolras thinks.

His eyes map out the hunched figure of Grantaire. There's one last thing, one last requirement to meet before he can let himself have this, he knows.

“I don't want this to be like the last time,” he says, and something like fear crosses the features of Grantaire's face. Quickly, Enjolras raises a hand – still not touching, but closer to something comforting than anything he'd managed before.

“If we do this, then we'll do it right. I want to know you. I want to know what I'm getting myself into.”

“There's nothing much about me,” Grantaire replies with a shrug. “But okay, shoot.”

“What, now?”

Enjolras is baffled.

“Do you have somewhere to be?” Grantaire half-grins, shifts forward on the bed. His jeans make a rough noise against the soft sheets. “Like they say, there's no time like the present.”

“You are insufferable.”

“You've seemed to have suffered quite a lot of me so far, so don't start now.”

Enjolras laughs despite himself, then faces Grantaire with sudden earnestness. “Okay then.”

Grantaire shifts again, laces his hands together in his lap in an effort to keep them still. Enjolras can see him swallow.

They are both nervous. They don't know who they'll be when they get out of this.

“So,” Enjolras says slowly. He's weighing every word. “You work for the FBI?”

Grantaire laughs says he knew Enjolras would start there, at the point that made them part, and he seems to meet Enjolras' gaze despite himself. “Not much to tell there. I've always wanted to be a cop when I was a kid, and my grades where good enough to get me into the right places at the right times.”

He shrugs, and then he breaks away from Enjolras' gaze.

“I suppose there's only so many shootings or women getting beat up in back alleys you can watch before you realise you're not doing jack shit. I was a bit too vocal about my disappointment, and got assigned to a sub-branch of an investigative team that actually wasn't doing much of anything. But hey, you take what you can get, right?”

His smile is lopsided, like he can't really convince himself of the truth of that last statement.

Enjolras moves closer. Grantaire takes one of his hands, holds it gently between his. “What about you? Where exactly did you apply to become a professional robber?”

He makes it sound like a joke. Enjolras realises that maybe his life always sounded like a bit of a joke, now that he comes to think about it. Rich white kid attempts to be Robin Hood, gets his little band of misfits into trouble and almost ends up arrested by the FBI which he cunningly evades by sleeping with the agent in charge beforehand.

“It was only me and Combeferre at the beginning. We used to be really close in college, because we came from the same background: rich parents, nothing to worry about, everything planned in advance.”

“I should have known...” Grantaire rolls his eyes with a mocking smirk, and Enjolras can't refrain from punching him lightly.

“Hush.”

“Okay, okay, I'm listening.”

Grantaire is still grinning. Enjolras is endeared, although begrudgingly so.

“We got into activism for a while, things did turn violent once or twice and maybe I was disinherited by my parents,” he continues, and avoids Grantaire's eyes because he can feel the knowing look, accompanied by Grantaire's trademark smirk, burning into him. “So we started talking about getting back at them. Something big. And one night, I got really angry and messed up and called my father's personal bank assistant and somehow convinced him to hand over half of my parents' fortune to an anonymous account that I'd set up.”

“And you got away with it?”

Grantaire's eyes are big, and Enjolras can see that he only half believes.

“Only because the next thing I did was call Combeferre. He split up the money, put it through I don't know what and donated almost all of it to several organisations that we'd talked about supporting. The rest he used for two plane tickets to San Francisco.”

“Really?”

Enjolras blushes. It wasn't one of the proudest moments in his life.

“Courfeyrac was probably the one who saved us from certain disaster. When he picked us up, he'd already been using his parents' money to run a homeless shelter in San Francisco for two years.”

“Seriously?” Grantaire snorts first, and then dissolves into helpless laughter. Enjolras tries to maintain some sort of composure, but it's hard, because the more he thinks about it, the more hopelessly idealistic they sound. “What are you, a support group for rich kids with a flair for well-intended crime?”

“You'd think that at least half of these things would show up on an FBI-background-check. Don't you guys do your fucking job?” Enjolras grumbles.

Grantaire turns serious enough to reply, “I think your parents never actually did connect the theft to you. Or they were afraid what kinds of questions people would ask at dinner parties if it became known that their son robbed them of half their fortune.”

Enjolras doesn't want to ponder those possibilities. He scoops up closer to Grantaire. “So you figured out I am an only child.”

“Even if I hadn't read your file, that wouldn't have been hard. You never had to share a single thing growing up, did you?”

Enjolras scowls, because Grantaire seems to figure him out faster than he can figure out Grantaire, and it's frustrating, and what if Grantaire doesn't like what he finds? What if he just decides that Enjolras is unbearable after all?

Of course, there's not much of a life he can go back to now.

“Do you have any siblings?” Enjolras asks.

“A sister.” Grantaire smiles, then leans forward to press a quick kiss to Enjolras' lips like he just couldn't help himself. It startles Enjolras, makes his heart leap even as Grantaire is leaning back. “She always did tell me I should quit my job.”

“Well then. You should invite her to dinner sometime. Let her know that you finally took her advice.”

Grantaire figures too late that Enjolras is only joking, and shoves Enjolras playfully as he smiles mockingly. Enjolras goes on the bed, falling backwards, and Grantaire follows on top of him. All of a sudden, Enjolras is terribly short of breath, and it’s not because Grantaire has the weight and the muscles to overpower him physically.

He is doing it again, he realises briefly, before he glances at Grantaire’s close-up face and can’t help but stare, because he has this, suddenly, someone who decided to come back for him when it was probably the most stupid idea in the history of the entire planet, Grantaire is here and he _wants_ him, and he –

“This whole things is getting rather tedious, isn’t it?”

Grantaire smirks, the way Enjolras knows him. It reminds him so much of their first night that it almost hurts for a second, because they can’t go back there, and sometimes Enjolras wishes he could because when he thinks of his friends lately he can only think of the damage he did, all because he didn’t want to focus, didn’t know how or if he should choose between something he’d always loved and something he thought he could love, given the time. Only he didn’t have the time.

“What are you proposing?”

Enjolras still half wants to follow through with this, he wants to get to know Grantaire because this time he is going to do it right, but Grantaire is also warm in his arms, warm and soft and Enjolras brings his arms up to wrap around Grantaire, and then Grantaire presses the lightest of kisses against his lips and the tension in Enjolras’ muscles softens.

“I’ve missed you,” Grantaire murmurs, and his eyes are distant like he’s remembering something, maybe he is thinking of their first night, too. Enjolras finds himself very much in the present all of a sudden.

“Me too,” he replies, but already Grantaire is pressing another kiss too his lips, more pressing and insistent and Enjolras follows, moves himself into a sitting position on his elbows and presses back, because two can play that game. He seeks Grantaire’s warmth more than anything else, needs to wrap himself up in Grantaire and hold Grantaire close at the same time so nothing bad can happen to him.

Grantaire flicks his tongue against Enjolras lips, presses him to part them slightly and _oh_ , isn’t that something, Enjolras almost forgot the feeling of going boneless under Grantaire when he kissed him just like that. He shudders against Grantaire, and suddenly Grantaire whines brokenly above him.

Enjolras draws back and frowns.

Grantaire turns bright red. “I hope you’re not still planning to follow through with your therapy session. That wouldn’t be playing fair right now.”

He seems embarrassed, but also defiant in a way, and maybe he hasn’t quite noticed that Enjolras is starting to get hard or maybe he can’t really process it, but anyway – Enjolras leans forward and takes Grantaire’s head between his hands.

“I changed my mind,” he says, “We can talk over breakfast after you’ve fucked me into this mattress like three times. Agreed?”

If possible, Grantaire turns even a darker shade of red. Enjolras leans forward and kisses him again.

It’s everything he’s missed in the past weeks, it’s all the frustrations and _could-have-been_ s that he pours into that kiss. He bites Grantaire’s bottom lip, because of the way it is soft and inviting, and because of the way it makes Grantaire whimper again and hold Enjolras closer. Grantaire presses forward eagerly at that, and Enjolras finds his throat going dry at how tight his trousers suddenly feel.

“Fuck,” he mutters between two kisses that are almost one, “Grantaire, fuck, please…”

Later he’d insist on having been more articulate, but right now all he cares about is Grantaire climbing off the bed to take of his trousers and t-shirt, and following that up with pulling off Enjolras’ trousers with the most astounding combination of eagerness and a total lack of care for finesse. Enjolras finds that now is definitely not the time for finesse.

He’s had weeks to think of this moment, and he can’t really pretend that he hasn’t, because fantasies were really all he’d had to keep him going, but they all fall short because there seems to be no time for them all of a sudden, not with the way Grantaire’s body fits over Enjolras, not with the way they are suddenly moving against each other that has them both groaning in surprise because has nobody thought of the _friction_ goddamnit, how is he supposed to last anywhere when he’s imagined Grantaire for so long and now he’s here and just as desperate as Enjolras. They’ve seem to run out of time all of a sudden, and they haven’t even taken off their boxershorts yet.

Enjolras tries to urge Grantaire on with gestures, runs fluttering hands over a wide expanse of back muscles and skin, finding his way anew and tracing places that he’d been before, and Grantaire in turn does his best to kiss him breathless with the way his tongue is mapping out Enjolras’ mouth, and he is panting between kisses like he’s running.

“Grantaire…”

Enjolras really is beyond phrasing his want, but luckily Grantaire doesn’t seem to expect a detailed description of what he hopes to gain from this. He has Enjolras’ face cradled between his hands, and he trails one hand over Enjolras cheek, the outline of his lips, his chin, his throat, downwards, downwards, and his hand is shaking as Enjolras joins his hand to Grantaire’s to wrap around his dick, and isn’t that _something_ , Enjolras breathes in sharply against the mixture of something that is pleasure and something that is almost pain, he’s imagined this for so long but nothing can compare to having Grantaire here and trying to articulate all the different ways in which he wants him.

“Grantaire, fuck…”

Grantaire can only nod frantically, like he doesn’t trust his own voice, but he’s staring at Enjolras with an intensity that would make him feel embarrassed in any other situation than the given one where Grantaire is currently doing _sinful_ things with that hand he has wrapped around Enjolras’ dick. Really, Enjolras is sure some of those hand movements are illegal.

Enjolras makes a decision in that moment, because quite frankly, he has a feeling that they’re rapidly running out of time and the beautiful thing is that they’ll be able to make up for it later, so he brings his other hand down to pull down Grantaire’s underwear and then guides Grantaire’s hand to wrap around them both. It’s almost too much for Enjolras, he can’t breathe before Grantaire speeds up his hand and it all comes out in a string of _oh my god Grantaire I need more fuck Grantaire_.

He tangles his free hand in Grantaire’s hair, pulls him down into a kiss that does absolutely nothing to diminish the fervour with which he is moving his hips to meet the movements of Grantaire’s and his own hand, because somehow his world has been narrowed down to the sharp, precise pressure that keeps him grounded and has him falling apart at the same time, he needs to remember how to breathe with Grantaire filling him up from the inside out and turning him around like it’s nothing.

He presses more, holds Grantaire close like they’re about to drift apart in zero gravity.

He falls apart suddenly, almost quietly, under Grantaire’s thumb brushing the tip of his cock, and he’s shaking while Grantaire his holding him and then Grantaire presses his face into the crook of Enjolras’ neck and whimpers and stills.

Then they just hold each other for a long while.

It’s Grantaire who moves first, even though Enjolras will claim he was thinking about moving for a while afterwards, only Grantaire was too close and too comforting and he just wanted to stay a second longer, seconds that easily stretched into minutes.

“I missed you,” he says again as he sits up, and Enjolras kisses him almost sheepishly, carefully, because he still cannot believe he is allowed to have this.

“I missed you, too,” he says. And adds, almost as an afterthough, “My friends will have me do so much explaining.”

—Ψ—

The clouds roll back again. The storm passes. The sea is calm.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on tumblr under ladybriennne. (note the three 'n')


End file.
